After the Fall of the Demon Race, Reincarnated as a Demon Girl - Chapter 1

“I… think I’m already dead.”

“Perhaps this is my fate—to die alone.”

Anrude reflected on his life: from a wandering orphan to the youngest disciple of the Grand Archmage, and finally, to the revered sage who led the campaign against the Demon King.

To others, he might have been a genius, a legend, a prodigy spoken of through the ages. But to Anrude himself, he was still just an ordinary man, confined within the narrow limits of this small world.

“Maybe it’s better this way…”

He closed his eyes, wiping away the starry sky from his dreams, wiping away the dreams from his mind, wiping away—

Crack—

A deafening sound jolted Anrude awake. The pitch-black space before him had split open with fine fissures, and through the cracks, streams of light poured in like drifting stardust, filtering through layers of darkness before finally settling on the tip of his nose.

The biting cold had faded, and the oppressive weight binding his limbs had lessened.

His hearing gradually returned, and through that slender crack, he faintly caught the sound of relentless hammering, along with a clear, familiar voice calling his name:

“Lord Anrude… Lord Anrude…”

Though the voice was distant and muffled, it struck a chord deep within him. That familiar call unwittingly carried his thoughts back to the past—to the first time he had met Alegria. Back then, she had been nothing more than an innocent little girl. Who could have guessed she would one day become a revered saint, worshipped by thousands?

With each strike, the crack before him seemed to widen. Anrude snapped back to reality and realized—he wasn’t dead yet.

He didn’t know why. Maybe it was thanks to Alegria, or perhaps a miracle. Whatever the reason, it was his only hope of survival.

He opened his mouth, trying to respond, but no sound came out.

Then he’d have to rely on himself.

Though the crack was widening, the external force alone wouldn’t be enough to break him free anytime soon.

As vitality slowly returned to his body, the suffocating cold finally dissipated, replaced by the gradual return of sensation in his limbs. He tried to stand, but his weakened legs refused to support him.

If he didn’t get up, he would die here.

Regardless of his injuries, he could only sense a faint trace of magic left in him. In this state, he needed food—otherwise, he would starve to death in this prison of darkness!

He hadn’t yet unveiled the research that would shock the world. He hadn’t ascended to the throne of the gods. He hadn’t even had the chance to see his closest friends one last time…

Why should he die here?!

After countless attempts, Anrude finally forced himself to his feet. Bracing against the dark walls surrounding him, he mustered every ounce of strength he had left and threw a punch at the crack.

The blackened barrier shattered. Thin but piercing rays of light streamed in, carrying with them the faintest glimmer of hope. Anrude collapsed to the ground, eyelids drooping heavily. For now, all he wanted was to bask in the warmth of the sunlight.

He had survived.

“Lord Anrude… Huh?”

Anrude raised a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding light. His gaze followed the voice, landing on a four-winged spirit composed entirely of glowing particles. Her features bore a striking resemblance to Alegria—about seventy percent similar.

He knew this spirit well. In fact, she was the primary reason he disliked Alegria.

“Who are you?”

The luminous spirit recoiled several meters, her hands quickly conjuring a delicate bow of light, its arrow aimed directly at Anrude’s forehead.

Unable to speak, Anrude frowned, his eyes flashing with displeasure.

Has Philof lost her mind? He didn’t recognize her—no, wait, she clearly knew him. She had just called him “Lord Anrude.” So the problem wasn’t with her.

It’s me.

In the sunlight, he caught sight of his own hand—pale, with delicate blue veins visible beneath the skin like the veins of a young leaf. This was not the hand he knew, marked by scars and wrinkles.

Could this be… what Hertis once called “rebirth”?

Had he returned to the past?

No, that didn’t make sense.

If this were a true rebirth, Philof shouldn’t even exist. She was a creation of the year 785 in the Chaos Calendar and only gained consciousness in the 12th year of the Saintess Era.

Anrude desperately wanted to see what he looked like now, but with Philof blocking his path, he didn’t dare move recklessly—unless he wanted a luminous arrow through his skull.

If only I still had magic…

The moment the thought crossed his mind, an invisible current of energy swirled around him, gathering above his head. Though his sensitivity to magic had greatly diminished, he could still sense the astonishing power coalescing in the air.

Philof nocked an arrow, but before she could release it, the surging torrent of magic devoured the energy of her bow, forcing her to stumble back in shock.

“What did you do?!”

She ducked behind a book, her voice trembling.

Anrude wasn’t sure either. Had his mere thoughts commanded the surrounding magic? That was beyond absurd—no human could wield such power.

The only beings he’d seen capable of this were the Demon King and his six generals…

A demon?

If that were the case, then—

Just as he feared, the swirling vortex of magic engulfed him completely. An overwhelming flood of energy surged into his veins, forcing his withered skin to swell unnaturally. His heart and blood vessels frantically pumped the magic throughout his body, saturating every cell—yet it still wasn’t enough to contain it all.

At this rate, I’ll die.

Clawing at the muddy ground, Anrude scrambled through his memories for a life-saving spell while dragging himself toward the book Philof was hiding behind. Ignoring the filth on his fingers, he flipped through the pages, channeling magic into his fingertips. With a light tap on a corner of the page, dark runes morphed into thorns that pierced his flesh, rapidly draining the excess magic from his body.

Philof’s pupils dilated in shock.

“Page 273 of the Scripture… the Arrogance Magic—Thorns of Agony.”

The sheer volume of magic caused the thorns to expand and explode within seconds. But for Anrude, this wasn’t enough. The thorns had a limited absorption capacity—they merely inflicted pain to keep him conscious, preventing him from passing out from magic overload.

The real solution was… this!

“Page 269 of the Scripture… the Greed Magic—Grasp of Avarice.”

As she spoke, the mud beneath them writhed to life, twisting into countless tendrils that coiled around Anrude’s body, binding him tightly.

The sun, like a weary traveler, slowly dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of crimson. The earthen tendrils had hardened into lifeless sculptures, standing silently in the fading light.

A tiny insect, its wings glinting with the last remnants of daylight, perched delicately on one of the mud-formed appendages.

Then—

The sculpture trembled. The insect fluttered away in fright as cracks spiderwebbed across the surface. With a final shudder, the shell shattered, revealing a small but sturdy figure.

She clutched the book tightly, her dark hair swaying in the wind. Her pale body swayed for a moment before steadying itself.

She had succeeded.

Of course it had to be these two revolting spells. One inflicted unbearable pain, the other immobilized its victim. Seeing them again brought back memories she’d rather forget.

“Lord Anrude…”

Philof emerged from behind the book, bowing deeply to the disheveled figure before her. Her voice was thick with remorse.

“This was Philof’s failure. I should have recognized you immediately… Even though you’ve taken on a form both detestable and… strangely endearing, I should never have raised my weapon against you. Please forgive my recklessness and ignorance.”

Anrude wasn’t angry with her. Right now, he was far more curious about his own appearance. Flipping casually through the scripture in his hands, he murmured:

“Page 101, Water Magic—Cleansing.”

“Page 114, Water Magic—Mirage Mirror.”

Moisture in the air condensed into a gentle stream, washing away the grime and exhaustion from his body before dissipating into the ruins around them. Another stream formed a translucent mirror, hovering before him.

And then—

She froze.

She had faced the Demon King’s overwhelming presence without flinching. She had weathered life-threatening crises with composure and ingenuity.

But this?

This shattered her completely.

The girl in the mirror had flawless, snow-white skin, radiating a soft, healthy glow. Her limbs were slender and graceful, like the tender branches of a willow in spring. Her fingers were long and delicate, exuding an air of elegance.

Her hair cascaded like the finest silk, swaying gently with every movement.

She was the very picture of purity and beauty—a vision that would inspire tenderness in anyone who saw her.

And this girl… was herself?

But that wasn’t all.

Upon closer inspection, her eyes gleamed like amethysts, and two dark horns curled from her temples.

Undeniably demonic traits.

Why?

She stared at her reflection, disbelief and despair clawing at her heart. It was bad enough that she had become something she couldn’t recognize—but to turn into a demon, a creature despised by all races?

How laughable. Who would believe that the sage who once stood among the heroes who felled the Demon King had now become a demon girl?

Dispelling the mirror, she slumped to the ground, curling into herself, lost in thought.

The sun had fully set now, replaced by the pale glow of the crescent moon. Its cold light draped over her bare form as the evening breeze rustled the leaves around them.

Silently, Philof pulled a blanket from the book in Anrude’s hands and draped it over her shoulders.